


good god, let me give you my life

by Silverwind578



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Needs a Hug, Depression, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Is it attempted suicide when you're immortal?, Suicidal Thoughts, there is light at the end of the tunnel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26641444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwind578/pseuds/Silverwind578
Summary: “And I don’t know what to do.”It comes out in a rush, a whispered confession to one who may have once been a god.--OR--Ignoring a problem is not the way to solve it, Booker.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	good god, let me give you my life

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for checking this out. The tags are pretty accurate for what's happening in this fic so please mind any potential triggers and look after yourselves <3

Booker stills, presses a hand into his stinging eyes and groans.

The others are asleep; they won’t hear him.

“I’m afraid,” he whispers into the dark, “of what has happened and what is happening and what will happen.”

It’s the type of fear that sits at the back of his mind, niggling away at his belief and self.

He sits up, hands now pressing into the mattress and blinks back his tears.

Joe shifts in his sleep and moves closer to Nicky. Nicky doesn’t wake, but he murmurs something indistinguishable. Nile curls around her bedding, her scar a pale line across her throat.

His first death didn’t leave a scar. Sometimes Booker wishes it did. Something to prove that it was real, a physical scar instead of the mental ones that no one notices or cares about.

“I’m sorry.” Another murmur. A sob builds in his throat but he ruthlessly represses it.

Nile flinches in her sleep, her brow creasing. Booker glances over, preparing to wake her, but she relaxes and drifts back into a peaceful sleep.

Booker wishes he could sleep like that. 

A shadow falls over him and he looks up. Andy stands leaning against the doorway. Her arms are crossed but she gives him a gentle look.

Booker wants to hide his shaking hands but knows Andy has already seen them. He winces and ignores the way his eyes burn.

Andy stares at him before leaving with a jerk of her head towards the garden. Booker stands and trails behind her.

Andy has always cut an imposing figure, but now, even more so. Booker wants to hide in his bed and ignore the world. The world has never given him anything apart from pain, why would this be any different?

She stalks towards an old garden wall and slouches against it. Booker hovers a few meters away.

He is not sure what she wants. Even after 200 years together, their bond is nothing like the others. It frustrates him, sometimes, when the others just _know_ what she wants or what’s happening.

They don’t understand. He had tried describing it to them but they looked as lost as he felt.

He supposes they don’t remember a time when they weren’t together. But for Booker, he can only remember a time where he’s alone.

Andy roughly drags a hand through her hair before gesturing him over with a dirt streaked hand. Booker wills himself to disappear but fumbles his way towards her. He slumps, spine losing all meaning as he huddles beside her.

They say nothing for a long time. Andy stares straight ahead, and Booker wonders what it’s like with all that history inside her.

She’s forgotten more about history than the world will ever know.

History that one day, he’ll be burdened with.

The grass rustles as a wind blows through it and goose bumps raise along his arms. He has always felt the cold more than the others.

Andy, still staring at nothing, or perhaps everything, slings an arm around his shoulders and draws him in.

Booker offers no resistance, tucking his head under her chin. He ignores how his skin crawls at the contact and craves it in equal amounts.

“I’m tired, Andy.” He sighs, breath condensing in the night chill. “I’m exhausted and scared-” He stops, stuck on a precipice that he cannot ( _will not_ ) fall off ( _and for once he doesn’t want to fall_ ).

“And I don’t know what to do.”

It comes out in a rush, a whispered confession to one who may have once been a god.

He doesn’t want absolution. He just wants it to end.

Andy says nothing, only runs her fingers down his arm. She pulls him closer, tightening her grip. It is reassuring, the firmness, to be reminded sometimes that he is alive.

He trembles in her grasp, trying desperately to blink away the tears in his eyes. Andy presses a kiss to his hair. It burns, harsh and unforgiving and Booker sobs, turning into her shirt. He presses as close as he can and _breaks_.

Treacherous tears track down his face, soaking into the thin cotton of her shirt.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he gasps, voice muffled.

It didn’t matter, Booker knew she heard him.

“I just wanted it to end.”

He pounds the ground next to them and a fresh wave of tears flow down his face. He tries to push his way out of her grip but she doesn’t let him.

Andy grabs his wrists and pins them behind him. She wraps her arms around his middle and he flails in her grasp.

They wrestle briefly, but Booker is overwhelmed and Andy has never cared about playing nicely.

Booker clenches his eyes shut, trying to block out the world around him.

The story slowly falls from his lips. He painstakingly lays out all he did, what has been done and what will happen.

He offers no platitudes or excuses. Andy doesn’t ask for them.

Throughout it all, Andy is a constant above him. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

She smothers him with the efficiency of a fire blanket _but it’s what Booker needs_.

There is nothing except for her and him. She runs her fingers through his hair as he slowly trails off. There is nothing else to say.

He opens his mouth, desperate to end the silence that rings in his ears. It condemns him, the silence.

“Hush, _mon petit frère_ ,” Andy whispers.

Booker cringes and sobs harder at the reminder of his home. Andy huffs, ruffling his hair and drags him up. She pulls him into her lap and holds him there.

Booker tenses before relaxing. He burrows into her shoulder and cries. Cries for what he’s lost and what he will lose. Cries for the boy he was and the man he doesn’t want to be.

Andy holds him as he shakes and falls apart in her arms. She threads her fingers through his hair and tugs gently. It’s enough to stop him to sobbing out loud, though tears still fall freely.

“It’s ok, it’s going to be fine, _you’re fine_.”

Booker moans in distress and shakes his head. _It was not ok, how could she think it was ok?_

He had betrayed them, broken their trust. He shakes his head even harder, ignoring the headache forming.

“It was meant to be me, only me,” he says into her shoulder, “not you and definitely not them.”

He flings a hand towards the house, flinching as Andy pulls it back towards her and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

“Oh Booker,” she murmurs, brushing the tears off his face.

She cradles his head between her hands. She runs fingers along his closed eyelids and Booker clenches them closed even tighter.

“Hey, c’mon Booker, look at me.” She presses a gentle kiss to his forehead before bringing their heads together.

Booker shudders, _he doesn’t deserve any of this_ , but reluctantly opens his eyes.

He flinches away from her piercing, soul seeing gaze, she may not have said anything, but her eyes tell him everything.

His eyes, red-rimmed, well up with fresh tears as Andy continued to stare with a gentle smile.

“No,” he whimpers, voice small and insignificant. _He doesn’t deserve to be forgiven, not by her, not by them_.

The tears fall and he hides away in her shoulder, sniffling and weeping. She strokes his back and hums a quiet melody. Andy surrounds him, blotting out thoughts of _Copley, immortality and death_ , until all that was left was _not forgiven, never forgiven, don’t deserve this_.

He quivers, choking out half heard and unneeded apologies, before he collapses into an uneasy sleep.

Andy gazes down at the broken man in her grasp and frowns. She isn’t angry, not with him, never with him, but this is something she should have picked up on. She curses, hushing Booker when he stirs.

“You are such an idiot, petit frère,” she says, pressing a final kiss onto his forehead and carrying him inside.

She pauses as she hears Quynh’s name. Now blinking back her own tears, she strides into the room, ignoring the questioning glances.

She places Booker on his bed, runs her hand through his hair.

“We have work to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thank you for reading this! Let me know what you think by leaving kudos or comments! <3<3


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